


Alternate 1

by korik



Series: She is Mine(to kill) [6]
Category: Black Widow (Comics), Captain America (Comics), Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Winter Soldier (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Not Human, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Animal Traits, Animal Transformation, Consensual Violence, Dominance, Dominant/Submissive, Explicit Consent, Explicit Language, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Implied Relationships, Jealousy, Multi, Partner Swapping, Possessiveness, Safer Sex, Safewords, Sex with Sentient Animals, Sexual Content, Sexual Metaphors, Shapeshifting, Sharing a Bed, Threesome, Threesome - F/M/M, Transformation, Unreliable Narrator, Werewolf Sex, literal metaphor, narration is largely centered from an unhealthy person, not sure if polyamory, sharing a partner, though a rather unfriendly one, unhealthy narrator, verbalized consent
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-04
Updated: 2014-05-04
Packaged: 2018-01-21 22:48:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1566830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/korik/pseuds/korik
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I've got a couple ideas for things that could happen, this is one of them, and particularly of the smutty variety.</p><p>Also - yes, there is finally a Natasha, The Winter Soldier is not just being as obsessive/possessive. Though he certainly still is.<br/>I am pleased my already named OC got a different name at last. And yes, it's vaguely meant to be horrible.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Alternate 1

He goes to her in the light of a full moon, every inch of his body trembling, vibrating with the sense of being alive and yet throwing itself into the path where there is certain destruction.

Through the winding length of the tower, he rises, fighting with the urge to bolt, run, the enclosed space feeling as though it becomes only smaller still the higher he rises, as if somehow his heart is enlarging with each step. Past old photographs and rotting metal that blossoms outwards into flowers, a reflection of the lingering madness that shows even here in the technological soundness of Stark Tower.

Constantly his gaze moves back and forth, lingering where appropriate, hunting, wanting, desperate to find traps. It could not be so simple. Nothing is ever that simple, particularly when he is several hours late into the night with its nonexistent sun, and flickering ivory stars painted against the oil slick night.

The flower plants make his nose itch when he passes up the elevators for the stairs, shuddering when in the dark stairwell he looks up - the beast wants out. The beast wants to explode up the length of the lined passage, claw and fight and hunt down the smell that arrests part of his mind in such a way. It can see it, stalking across the floor to where she waits - they will fight - he will make her gasp, not scream, she never screams - he will bite her head off and consume her flesh, suck the marrow from her bones -

He realizes he is rocking in place, fingers curling and uncurling as though trying to grab onto the air in desperate measures.

He throws himself up the rails, strides growing broader and broader as his skin peels to slabs of fur, bones aching and screaming, the supple clothing he wears stretching to their limits as his hair grows shaggy and thick, muscles bulging, and his human hand, at last, matches his false one.

The beast catapults up flights, thick nails tearing into the concrete and marble edges with their straight lines and organization - like falling down into an illusion, one of those that plays with the eye and brain as the optical nerve attempts to reconcile the way it appears closer, but is in fact further away. He is stretched thin in this hall of illusions, placing the cracks there himself with his monstrous talons.

_Let me out - let me out - let me -_

The door buckles under his weight and he hears a sound - the gasp.

 _Yesss_....

The great snout raises, nostrils flaring as the scent, the smell of her - it winds into the crevices of his brain and locks firm. He whines, a pitiable, great beast who, if he stood tall, would easily touch the ceiling for all its height.

The thick tendons in his hands, as large as pine saplings, curl and flex, each tipped with a darkened slab of pure dissecting power.

His large furred ears flick on his head, and his eyes focus. He sees the curve of her pale back, the length of her blood curled hair cascading over bone and corded muscle -

He balks. Though she winds her hands through her hair, arches her back and winds her hips - it is not for him.

Red is all he sees.

He comes to, finding himself shaking and shivering, dripping jaws snapping at the pale expanse of her, she who has coolly leapt aside the terrible swipes that have ripped cavernous holes into the hard walls, knocking astray a lamp and shattered its hand carved frame, eviscerated the contents of a bedside drawer. Her hands are wrapped around his neck, and his windpipe is nearly crushed. The man known as Clint has lain there and watched, and a throb in his side makes the Soldier think he was kicked off before he could ruin the bed with its plain cotton colors, though a feather clings to his tongue when he pants so the beast has to bark a laugh of triumph anyway.

Her voice is cold, feeling akin to his spine and nerves that it traces with cruel efficiency a sweet, clear relief. "I'm not going to let go, but I will relax. If you try to struggle, I'll incapacitate you again."

His tail wags, heavy beats against the ground, a thing on its own to betray the shattered pieces of his mind.

"Say it, Soldier."

A groan of his voice cracks out of his muzzle, her arms tightening further around his neck as a warning he cannot help but enjoy. "I...yes. Yes." He squirms as her arms twitch against his throat, and black spots explode in his vision. "P-please, please..." He wants to rip his tail off for the way it slaps against the ground, unadulterated happiness, but meek, and it reminds him of the icy cling of terror around his heart.

_What if she kills me?_

The quiet assassin is true to her word, arms relaxing, resting almost like a loose collar about his maned neck.

"He looks like a beat up puppy dog with all the tenderness of a raving lunatic."

Wolf eyes dart to Clint, the silent figure in this set up he shamefully forgot was there. As his lips curl, he feels the pressure about his neck again, forcing him to stifle the growl that wants to erupt. His tail stops its cheerful beat before timidly beginning again as the Widow's arms relax once more. She even gently scratches into the thick fur.

"There there, you're all right," she whispers, though he thinks it is loud enough for Clint to hear before she seems to speak to the bowman directly, "he's like how I was, broken in a lot of ways - alone."

The man she speaks to has draped himself now more towards the end of the bed, chin in hands, amiable, though not submissive as if he doesn't quite trust what shouldn't be trusted. "I remember."

The Soldier flashes his teeth despite the crush of his throat when the blonde haired man with his pale, almost dead eyes stares at him, voice speaking softer, but with an edge of warning. "I'm here because I asked to be; I don't trust you, and I don't want to see Nat hurt, no matter what she says. She thinks this could be good for you, if you're willing to not bite unless asked."

The words cut through his teeth, though he makes a strong attempt to keep his breath as he responds, forcing the muscles in his face and body to relax, "Then let's get one thing straight - she's _mine_." There is a vicious sound that rips out this time as Clint _laughs_ , and he chokes on it as the woman squeezes ever tighter.

"If what she says about you is true, you know she doesn't belong to anyone, freezer-boy."

The wolf shivers as reflexively his fingers unstick from the floor, ears flattening against his head. His teeth disappear beneath his thin lips. "I know."

The Widow rubs his head, murmuring against the bones in his face. "Louder, love."

For a moment he tries to look to her, whining softly in his throat, but instead centers back on the nude bowman with his smattering of scars making an elegant pattern across his shoulders, and up his forearms. "I know Natalia belongs to no one." He does not say he knows because he had been gifted with her touch long ago, probably before this other, competing male was alive.

He whimpers loudly when he recognizes a kiss from her.

"There you go, it's okay."

The short, compact fighter sighs and sits up, thumbing what looks like a day's old scruff. "Well, I'm good as long as there are safewords, and we go over limits."

The were blinks, body stiffening. "I - what?"

There is a humming noise next to his ear. "I suppose they would have never taught you that, and if they did, they probably wiped it - " her sigh is like a knife to his soul. "I'd wanted to help you vent by giving you a safe place to work out what has been pounding in your head, Bikou told me of the sessions you had with him."

Bikou? The impertinent Nightsider vampire who was at times all too handsome and all too friendly with his smattering of tattoos that curled over back, arms and face, who had been in his head more than the Soldier liked to admit - of _course_ Bikou was informing on him. He couldn't really resent him, after all, he'd been fool enough to think this mission possible, so far outside the stabilizing influence of Alpha-One and Beta-One.

He forces out, "I'm not surprised."

She laid her head against him. "I'm sorry, anyway, for the deceit - it is the way our world has worked, but it doesn't mean I have to enjoy it each time I employ it."

The great golden eyes close as he feels as if a great weight has momentarily lifted from his shoulders. She knows. She understands. He doesn't have to open his mouth and explain how he feels like glass shards are shaking around inside and peeling his innards apart, how he wants to ask but he keeps pushing against the knife that is making its way towards his heart, and he with open arms begs it so.

"That is fucked up," comes the voice from the vicinity of the bed. "Fucked up, but understandable."

The werewolf doesn't move as the warm body slides and slumps, so ungraceful when compared to Natalia, to the floor where they have yet to move from. "I'd prefer nothing that would leave scars on me, I've got enough of a problem bending some of my joints as is since I don't heal like either of you, and if you're going to stay a giant pooch, no dick up my ass, thanks, though if you really want, between my thighs is fine," he huffs softly, and the Soldier thinks he is grinning a bit. "Figured that out with Thor, fast. Safeword on my end is Chickenwings, and _don't laugh_ , _Nat_."

The giggle tickles his body, but the happiness she expresses relieves the Soldier to an extent he hadn't expected. "Am I right in guessing that she usually laughs about that? It does sound like a pretty common occurrence."

"You bet she laughs, and that's part of the point; no one to date has forgotten that safeword." He is definitely grinning now. "All right, before you break something, you next, beautiful."

How much the beast wants to tear her throat out as she speaks, pure, simplistic joy of a singular finality. "I'm not really in for broken bones, though I can handle it and heal with much less time than some, a bit of blood is fine - " her arms shrug around his neck - "- honestly, I've been pretty desensitized; safeword is Casablanca."

Somewhere in the back of his mind, there is a brief whirl of film, a gin joint, a beautiful woman, and a man who is bitter and smokes thick cigars. His eyes blink open and he stares at the face of the blonde in front of him.

The man cocks his head. "You all right in there?"

"I think I...saw that one," he tries to explain, "A long time ago."

Barton nods his head. "One of the last, I think, Hollywood has decayed much further and doesn't really make such quality anymore."

"No one does," the Widow murmurs, almost mourning.

He doesn't have much to say on the subject, he was never what anyone would call an entrepreneur or aficionado when it came to films.

Thankfully, the pause is brief, and Clint is quick to move on, less ancient than the two relics in the room. Probably motivated by his interrupted love making with Nat if the smell of arousal is anything to go by. "What about you, Wolfman?"

The Soldier is glad they cannot see him blush, though if he thought harder about it, it was more likely Natasha would smell or detect with her impeccable senses the increase of blood, the accelerated heartbeat. "I-I... I don't know." That's not wholly true. "I - I'm old fashioned." It's strange to say outloud, but it is true. After so much input, so much sound and noise and flesh tearing and bodies breaking -

Clint's brows raise up to his hairline. "Huh. Never would have slapped you a vanilla."

The Widow's hands, soft and gentle, are in his fur, stroking alongside his ears and head. "Push too hard and the flashbacks come, right?"

The werewolf doesn't feel like she is quite asking a question, more stating a fact. About her? He wonders, and part of him aches.


End file.
